“Look at the transport serial number, Natalie,” he said quietly.

I scrolled down the document.

The aircraft assigned to the flight was listed as a C-130 Hercules, tail number November-Four-Eight-Two.

My chest tightened.

I knew that tail number.

It was part of a fleet of transport planes that had been retired after a wing-spar cracking incident in the spring.

It was a flying coffin.

“A decommissioned bird,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “It was scheduled for scrap metal next week.”

“The logistics paperwork is already filed,” my father said. “The flight will suffer a catastrophic hydraulic failure over the salt flats.”

“You did this,” Madison said, her voice rising. “You set this up.”

“It was the only way to ensure the security of the family assets,” my father said.

He spoke as if he were discussing a bad real estate investment.

“She was digging too deep, Madison,” he added, looking at her. “She left me no choice.”

“She is your daughter!” Madison screamed.

The wind rattled the window frames, shaking the glass.

I ignored their voices, my tactical training taking over.